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Through many a stage the crescent goes And then at last full moon it grows: Perfection no one can attain, Save by dint of strife and strain.

The bud that gets no share of light From the sun that shines so bright, And opens through its inner urge Is bereft of life’s full surge.

If your gaze of sins be free, Then chaste and pure your heart shall be, For God the Mighty has decreed That heart shall follow and gaze shall lead.

The tulip red with heart afire In avenue could not thrive and spire, As this world of corn and wheat For tulip wild could not be meet.

Great wars by Aibak and Ghauri fought By the world are all forgot; But the lays of Khusrau still Our hearts with joy and pleasure fill.